


King of the Road

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Rooms to Let [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Contract Hunting, Angel Castiel, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Contractor Dean, Crucifixion, Fluff and Humor, Gay Dean Winchester, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Marijuana, Mild Blood, Monsters, Road Trips, Smoking, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 23:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Contracted out by the local police in Moriarty, New Mexico, Dean is sent to investigate the happenings around a church outside of town, the Angel-worshiping congregation reportedly flocking to the location in recent days. As it turns out, though, instead of snake charmers or devil worshipers, Dean finds an Angel crucified to the cross, said Angel unreasonably snarky despite being tied up against his will.Turning over Castiel to the authorities, though, doesn't work in Dean's favor. With nowhere to go and Heaven having abandoned him, Dean agrees to haul Castiel across the country on two conditions--he doesn't smoke in the car, and he doesn't rob convenience stores in broad daylight.God, Dean might actually kill him before this is over.





	King of the Road

One hundred bucks isn’t enough to be doing this, Dean thinks, slamming the trunk of his Chevrolet Impala with a hard thud, backpack slung over his shoulder and a flashlight in hand. Not that he needs it, but it’s better than nothing, especially with the way the sun sets in New Mexico, fast rolling with summer chills nipping at his heels, the afternoon going from mildly hospitable to deadly within a moment’s notice.

Really, if money weren’t such an issue, he wouldn’t be out here in the first place, tucking his pistol into the holster on his thigh and readying himself for an enemy that probably isn’t even there. In the middle of cramming an entire side of mac ’n cheese into his face in Tucumcari, Moriarty’s police chief called on something ‘urgent,’ completely bypassing Dean’s questions about how he got his phone number or how he knew he was close in the first place.

“The local congregation’s getting shifty,” Chief Harper told him, nonchalant and bored, probably putting golf balls into a coffee cup in his office. “‘Bout a dozen people’ve started goin’ to this church outside ‘f town, and it don’t sound good.”

“Nefarious purposes?” Dean asked, dunking three fries in ketchup.

“They’re Angel worshipers, y’know the type. Think they see visions in people’s ‘auras,’ or some kinda bullshit. Just need you to run down and see what’s in the chapel.”

Five twenty-dollar bills will get Dean a room in a moldy shack in any city, and a few meals if he stretches it far enough. Normally, cops pay more, especially when monsters are involved. And with the results Dean has had over the last two years, every time his name gets mentioned from the back of phone books or napkins passed underneath tables, the price instantly doubles. Harper, though, apparently has never heard of him, aside from someone in his unit spouting off about Monster Slayer Dean Winchester, Hunter for Hire.

God, he needs a cooler identity, something that doesn’t sound like he’s from a ‘90s television series or the titular character in a porno.

The church, as Harper described it, sits about twenty miles down Old New Mexico 41 outside of Moriarty, far enough for paved asphalt to turn to dry, red dirt under his wheels. Considering the churches Dean has seen in the last few months, this is nothing; broken out windows, less than impressive stained glass, and a bell hanging inside the steeple that looks a good gust away from toppling and crashing through the front awning. Sun has baked the white walls to a dusty tan, and thick brown cakes the bottom siding, from what Dean hopes is mud and not Hell attempting to swallow the building whole. Even demons wouldn’t stoop to completely decimating a church… right?

Somewhere off in the distance, a coyote howls; a tumbleweed blows past, sticking to the Chevy’s back tire. Dean ignores it and steadies himself, blowing out a warm breath in even hotter weather. At least in the shade, the sun doesn’t burn that bad, and the sweat staining his shirt doesn’t look as menacing as it certainly feels against his skin. What he wouldn’t give for a working air conditioner. A job or two more, and he can get the thing fixed.

“Alright,” Dean says, steeling his jaw, flashlight at the ready. “Here goes nothing.”

Slowly, Dean ascends the two steps and pushes open one of the unlocked double doors, hinges creaking under the strain. Off-colored sunlight stains the wooden, rotted floors, illuminating the heavy sheen of dust on the backs of oddly-angled pews. Even the altar is empty, a bible thrown on the floor with pages torn out and scattered, several hymnals tossed around, some opened to indistinguishable pages. A piano sits lopsided on the wall, keys strewn about, stained red.

Which, shouldn’t be right. Treading the plywood with less-than-graceful elegance, Dean shines the flashlight toward the piano, light gleaming off what looks to be fresh water, occasionally rippling. The last he checked, it hasn’t rained in days, and water doesn’t run out this far in the desert unless someone farms the land, which means—

“Look up,” someone says to his left, and Dean nearly throws his back out.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t see it before, the massive cross perched against the back wall—or the person crucified to it, naked and bleeding from his hands and feet, a crown crafted from tumbleweeds adorning his neck and head. That, and the giant back masses held up by clotheslines, multiple lengths threaded through what look to be feathers in an attempt to display the man—the creature, apparently.

He isn’t human, tanned skin and blue eyed with features sharp enough to cut glass. He’s an Angel, an honest to God Angel, a tool for the congregation to worship, most likely summoned against his will. The last Dean or any of the other hunters knew, Angels hadn’t descended to Earth in at least five decades, the last leaving in the early ‘60s. No rhyme, no reason, just gone, abandoning humanity to fend for themselves in the face of whatever roamed the country.

And now, there’s one hanging from a cross, bare and glaring down at him with scrutiny, a question in his eyes. “Get an eyeful?”

Dean flushes bright red, proceeding to drop the flashlight into the puddle of blood. Great, now he has to clean it, and his shoes. “What’re you doing up there? Down here?” Dean asks, earning a disgruntled eye roll.

Idly, the Angel wiggles his fingers, stiff from disuse. “Hanging out.”

“Oh God,” Dean moans, head thrown back.

“God isn’t listening,” the Angel says, wistful. “Would you mind ripping these spikes out of my hands? I assume you’re not here to cut my feet and ask for my blessing.”

“What—No.” Dean nearly trips over his own boots in an effort to move, to find a ladder somewhere. The Angel points to it with his eyes, Dean following until he finds it on the opposite end of the room, rusted and probably riddled with tetanus. Hopefully, his vaccine is still good from last year. He can’t afford to go to the hospital again, not with the four hundred dollars in his cash box labeled EMERGENCY ONLY.

“You have a limp,” the Angel notes while Dean sets the ladder up, Dean just praying it doesn’t collapse and send him through the floor. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Dean ignores him and climbs, only having to reach halfway up the ladder to grasp the Angel’s ankle, frail; how long has he been up here? “Chupacabra bit me,” he says, hand on the spike. Hopefully Angels can heal, because this is an infection waiting to happen. “Do you feel pain?” The Angel laughs, pain splitting his lips. Enough of an answer for him. “Then get ready to yell.”

Almost brutally, Dean slides the spike free, blood spurting onto the front of his shirt, thankfully one of his more worn black T’s. The wound closes and heals after, knitting together without a scar. Meanwhile, the Angel never makes a sound save for a grunt and a disapproving hiss. “Neat trick,” Dean comments; the Angel just kicks at him in reply. “Hey, do you want down or not?”

“Now’s not the time to ogle at my anatomy,” the Angel says. “Now get on with it.”

Dean snorts under his breath, barely giving the Angel the chance to prepare himself before he yanks the other spike free; this time, he does shout. “Y’know, for an Angel, you sure are bossy.”

The Angel glares. “And you’re incredibly attractive, but I’m not pointing out the obvious.”

_Oh my god, I’m gonna kill him._

“Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to bite the hand that feeds?” Dean scolds. Five more steps, and he reaches the top rung of the ladder, giving him easy access to the Angel’s wrists. Dean swallows from the look the Angel shoots him, cobalt eyes narrowed in the diminishing sunlight shining through stained glass. Full lips part in invitation, one that sends a curl of heat down Dean’s spine—no. _Wrong place, Winchester_. “I need to get your hands.”

“I need those,” the Angel smirks—Dean wants nothing more than to slap him, or leave him hanging there, or something that involves not having to look at that self-satisfactory grin he wears.

 _God, what an ass_. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

The Angel leans forward as far as he can, lips pressed to Dean’s ear. “You’re invited—”

Dean never really thought this through, in the end. Never once did he consider that the Angel was only suspended by the spikes, and never did he even remotely think that ripping them from his hands would let the Angel free of his bonds, and subsequently tumbling into the ladder and taking Dean down to the floor in a massive, metal-jammed heap. _Hey, at least the floor’s still here._

-+-

“No, Mr. Winchester, I can’t pay you more because you need to visit the clinic. That’s not in our agreement.”

Dean’s eye twitches. “We’re hunters, we don’t have agreements. We’re in the back of the phone book for a reason!” Slamming his fist on Harper’s desk won’t do anything, but it sure as hell does make him feel better, alleviating the spasm shooting up his spine for a scant second. Castiel—apparently he has a name—fared better than him, barely a scratch on him and his Adonis-like face and hard abs and—God, when he gets out of here, he’s going to punch Castiel in the face.

Harper shrugs behind his desk, chewing a toothpick without a care in the world. Meanwhile, Dean may have a slipped disc. “Your organization doesn’t have worker’s compensation?”

If his entire body didn’t ache, Dean would shake his head. “We’re contractors. I pay for my own insurance, and they sure as shit aren’t gonna cover me falling off a damn ladder.”

“You should’ve considered physics,” Harper says, the jab knocking Dean’s pride down about three rungs.

Anywhere else, and Dean would be curled in a ball on his mattress crying his eyes out just from the pain. Castiel doesn’t seem to care, either, too busy loitering the reception desk wearing one of Dean’s shirts and a pair of ratty sweatpants, the only clothing he had that wasn’t back at the hotel, meant for incidents like this. He couldn’t leave Castiel naked though, lest he scare the residents of Moriarty—and himself.

“Just pay me,” Dean huffs, hanging his head. Harper fishes out five twenty-dollar bills stuffed into an envelope, Dean’s name written across the front. Dean takes it with a trembling hand and stuffs it into his pocket. “What’re you gonna do with him?”

“The Angel?” Harper asks, leaning back in his chair. “Can’t do nothin’ with him. Way you said his wings are all tore up, surprised he can fly. Might need to hang around you for a while ’til he can.”

“Oh hell no,” Dean hisses. “Chief, I’m gonna kill him if I have to—”

Harper raises an eyebrow. “You don’t got a choice. Far ’s I see it, either he’ll stay here and bum his way to wherever he wants to go, and if he starts trouble, someone’s gonna call one of your friends and they’ll make sure he gets back upstairs permanently. Or,” he waves his hands, palms up, “finders keepers.”

Dean really, really wants to cry. “You gotta be kidding me,” he says, just before he hangs his head. “Just… If you ever have a real emergency—”

“I’ll call you,” Harper says and reaches out to shake Dean’s hand.

Dean winces the whole time, chewing the inside of his cheek as he leaves, solely to keep himself from screaming. Admittedly, there have been worse days in his life, but nothing like this; even getting thrown into a concrete wall hurt less, and he even has the scar to prove it. This is a massive bruise, though, and no doubt if he looks in the mirror, he’ll see the evidence of where he landed on the altar and where Castiel’s elbow clocked him on the way down.

Really, Castiel should be thanking him.

Dean’s car is still parked outside of the Quality Inn, only a block or two from the police station. Castiel tags along the entire way, much to Dean’s disdain, whistling some tuneless melody. Thankfully with the moonrise, the temperatures have dropped significantly, the sweat beginning to cool across Dean’s skin, also obscuring the blood that’s no doubt spattered across his face. Blood is preferable to half of the things that’ve been thrown at him, though; this, he can wash off and be done with in a few minutes. Maybe the shower will help, if he can lift his leg high enough to get over the lip of the tub.

“I can heal you, you know,” Castiel says the second Dean closes the door to his hotel room, a fourth floor corner overlooking the utter blankness of New Mexico.

Turning, he spots Castiel staring at him, bare chested and shirt in hand, like wearing AC/DC offends him—it sure as hell offends Dean. “You’re kidding.”

“Quite the contrary.” Heat rises up Dean’s neck, the tips of his ears painted red the closer Castiel walks, eventually settling his hand over the small of Dean’s back. Castiel is nearly the same height as him without shoes, but he’s broader, built in a way that puts Dean’s slim frame to shame. “Breathe deep.”

Dean does as he’s told, inwardly praying it’s not a joke, that Castiel wouldn’t be that much of a dick to offer him relief and leave him aching. White hot… something flows through his veins as Castiel’s eyes glow bright blue, reaching to every corner of his body, mending aches he’s been feeling for weeks: an incessant bite wound, a finger that won’t entirely sit straight, his back, the beginnings of a headache budding behind his eyes. Everything gone, and in its wake, Dean’s knees buckle, Castiel’s hand the only thing keeping him standing.

“Holy shit,” Dean gasps, wet in his throat.

Castiel just smiles, all teeth and no shame. “I know you don’t want me here, and I know you have no interest in me—”

“How did you—Did you hear me?”

“I can hear all things,” Castiel hums. He runs his hand up Dean’s back, creeping under his sweat-soaked shirt to stroke along his spine; Dean shudders, warming further. “I can feel how aroused you are, physically, emotionally.” Closer, lips close enough to touch; all Dean can do is stare. “You want me. You want _this_.”

Dean swallows, breathless. “Castiel—”

“I haven’t been to earth in fifty years, Dean. The last I visited, I was in the Baltics, and no one there enticed me as much as you.” And then—he pulls away, all traces of touch gone; Castiel leaves him for the left half of his king-sized mattress, arms crossed behind his head, ankles hooked one over the other. “But I am good for some things. I think I’d like to travel with you.”

This isn’t happening—an Angel didn’t just heal him and spark the first erection he’s had in a long few months, and said Angel didn’t just cockblock him by inviting himself to the front seat of his car. “You think so?” Dean says, a little too high, shame burning across his face. _Think of your brother, dead kittens, something_. “Think you’re gonna just waltz in here and run the show?”

Castiel faces him, running his eyes along Dean’s frame; even dressed, Dean feels exposed. “All the other Angels say I’m delightful,” he says, then looks at the ceiling. “Although, none of them bothered to save me, so I’d take my word over theirs.”

The mattress creaks under Dean’s weight, bed frame too old to be of much use; a bed is a bed though, and all that garbage. “How long were you up there?” he asks, bending over to untie his boots. He can move now without wanting to scream, a certifiable miracle.

“Give or take three months,” Castiel says, blasé, like someone didn’t just string him up like a butterfly. “I guess lesser Angels are easier to summon. They wanted to worship me, but that entailed displaying me and cutting me open. Do you know how much blood the human body holds?” He laughs, kicking his feet. “It’s fascinating. Hey.” Sitting up, he knees his way over to Dean’s back, sliding his arms around Dean’s chest. “How does your penis feel, when you—”

“Alright, alright.” This time, Dean pulls away, nearly tripping over his own shoes in the process. “I’m gonna—” _Shower, yes, shower, work out all of my issues in the shower_. “I’m gonna soak, and when I come back, you better have a shirt on.”

Castiel pouts—actually pouts, hands on his spread knees. “Dean—”

“Just…” This is harder than it should be, especially with Castiel looking at him like that, wide eyed and… _I’m going to Hell_. Two hours ago, Angels weren’t on Earth, and Dean was just trying to make enough cash to pay for two nights in Amarillo. Now, he has an Angel in his bed and an absolutely impressive erection being crushed by a tight zipper. “I’m tired, okay? It’s been a long day and I just wanna sleep. Whatever you wanna do, we’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

“I enjoy coffee,” Castiel suggests. “There’s a diner down the road.”

Dean smiles, at least as much as he can muster, and grabs his pajamas from the foot of the mattress. “Shirt on.”

Castiel just chuckles. “Fine.”

-+-

By the time Dean drags himself out of bed and brushes away Castiel’s wandering hands, Lisa’s Grill is empty save for a few stragglers still trying to funnel coffee into their faces. Castiel, as it turns out, is a voracious eater, putting Dean to shame in the way he inhales two large stacks of pancakes and a plate of eggs and bacon. Coffee apparently is an afterthought—then again, Castiel hasn’t eaten in three months.

“Do Angels even need to eat?” Dean asks through a mouthful of toast, just as Castiel begins to slow and actually breathe. “Don’t choke.”

“We don’t have to, but I haven’t had actual food in several decades,” Castiel says, sipping his coffee; he grimaces, lips turned down. “This, however.”

“I’ve had better,” Dean shrugs. “It’ll wake you up though.”

Leaning back, Castiel rests his arms along the top of the bench; he’s wearing one of Dean’s shirts again, this one a tighter fitting work shirt, originally loose on Dean’s frame. By the time he figures out what to do with Castiel, he might need to buy a new wardrobe. “You’re different,” Castiel comments, head tilted back, exposing the curve of his throat. “Why are you hunting?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? Why he isn’t at home trying to find engineering firms to take him based off of his academic achievements alone, why he’s not bothering his brother off at Stanford, why he’s not settling down in his own two bedroom house with a white picket fence and a cat. The truth is, “There’s money in hunting. Figure, I do this until I figure out what I wanna do with my life, and I make some cash on the side. See the country, meet people, whole nine yards.”

“That’s dangerous,” Castiel accuses. “How much does it pay?”

Dean huffs, shaking his head. “Depends on what the monster is. Vamps and werewolves don’t pay that much because they’re everywhere, but wendigo and shifters, the ones that really do damage? Those’ll get you through a week or two.”

“What about demons?”

Dean snaps his head up, jaw twitching. “Depends on the eye color,” he starts, slow. “Black eyes are maybe three hundred starting, yellow eyes’ll start around six, and white’ll get you at least a grand.”

Castiel tilts his head, considering. “You don’t like demons.”

A scowl. “Dude, no one likes demons. They get in your head, make you think things that aren’t real. All they want is souls. They don’t care about families or what happens—”

“Dean.”

Castiel touches his hand, fingers curling over his fist, prompting him to drop his butter knife. Touchy subject; no hunter in the history of contracting likes demons, but they run rampant, jumping from body to body into poor people who didn’t even know they were being possessed. Exorcisms only work half of the time, and so far, the only weapon known to kill them is the knife stashed in his trunk, snatched off a corpse in El Paso last May. Dean hasn’t had to use it though, and hopefully won’t, as long as the other hunters take care of them before he’s called in.

Dean can roast wendigo, he can gut a werewolf and shoot a shifter in cold blood, but demons terrify him out of his mind.

“Do you have any personal experience with them?” Castiel asks; Dean nods, but refuses to elaborate. The two experiences in the past have been enough for him. “You should take this, then.”

From underneath the table, Castiel pulls a considerably sized blade, forged of what looks like solid steel, but glimmers like a diamond in the sun. The material sits smoothly in his grasp, more than enough room for his hand to move; its triangular blade measures approximately ten inches, maybe more, tapering to a sharp point. _Holy shit_. “What is this?”

“All Angels are equipped with two weapons, that, and a sword we keep on us at all times. They can kill every creature save for some of the Hierarchy.” Castiel gestures to it, pressing his finger to the tip; from the pinprick, white light glows until it heals over, slower than the stigmata, yet somehow more terrifying. “As for me, I’m just an Angel. This is the only blade that can kill me.”

“Wow,” is all Dean can say; quickly, he hides it under the table before their waitress comes back with more coffee. Castiel orders orange juice for the both of them and requests the check. “And you’re just giving it to me?”

“You have more use for it than I do,” Castiel states. “Heaven hasn’t been at war for at least twenty years. I haven’t had to defend myself, and if someone attempts to take my life, I have my sword.”

If this blade is any indication, Dean wants to know what else Castiel has tucked away beside his wings.

Dean pokes at the rest of his pancakes before finally deciding to pop the rest in his mouth, afterwards pushing his plate to the center of the table. “If you want something to do,” he says before swallowing, pulling a small pocket atlas from his pocket, “I could find us a case. I haven’t really partnered up with anyone before.”

“Or we could drive for a while.” Leaning on his elbows, Castiel grins, syrup on his lip; Dean thumbs it away before he can talk himself out of it. “Until you find something. I want to see the country while I’m here.”

“Before Heaven decides to recall you?”

Castiel snorts. “If they haven’t noticed I’m gone, then they don’t care where I am in the first place.”

As depressing as it is, that Castiel is the first Angel in half a century to walk the earth and that his family could care less about his absence, Dean takes him up on the offer and slaps cash on the table, twenty bucks from last night’s pay. “Then we’re going to Arizona.”

-+-

Driving, no matter the distance, has never really bothered Dean. Sure, the shorter the better, but if he has a destination in mind, the time passes faster and his eyes don’t wander onto every single tourist trap each state has to offer. His ideal scenario, six to seven hours on the open road, hopping from city to city, state to state, on his own with his tape deck and box of cassettes shoved under the passenger seat.

As it is now, Dean drives with all the windows rolled down in a sweat-stained tank top with an Angel at his side, Castiel rummaging through his tape collection, wearing nothing but his pants. Apparently, Angels feel temperature changes just as well as humans—maybe, possibly, even more so, based on the sweat that drips down his chest, over parts Dean does not want to think about while driving.

Castiel might actually kill him just by doing… whatever it is that he does.

“My brother is partial to someone named George Strait,” Castiel says offhand, finally finished with his perusal of Dean’s entire stash, gingerly setting it back under the seat with his water bottle, only a quarter empty.

Dean snorts and squints through his sunglasses. Indian Route 191 is barren and endless, stretching through untouched country and rising and falling with the land. Fields upon fields with small residential areas and the occasional horse or bull, or a dog or coyote, all of which Castiel points out with every sighting. “You ever been in a car before?” Dean asks, side-eyeing Castiel. “I mean, besides when you wanted to sit your bare ass on my leather.”

A moment passes before Castiel laughs, seat belt pulling tight as he moves. What a setup; Castiel lets it go, but his obvious thoughts still linger in the air. “I never had the chance, honestly,” he says. “I did own one once, but I never drove far. I can fly. Cars are irrelevant to us.”

“He doesn’t mean that,” Dean mutters, rubbing his hand along the steering wheel. Castiel shoots him a look, one of mixed amusement and confusion. “That why you can’t sit still, not used to riding shotgun?”

“I can, I just don’t care to.” Briefly, he reaches into his back pocket to pull out a carton of cigarettes and a Zippo, neither of which Dean remembers picking up anywhere. “Besides, I told you how we could pass the time—”

“And I told you that I’m not getting pulled over because you decided you wanted to crawl in my lap,” Dean complains. Patience is a virtue somewhere, but not for Dean. The rasp of Castiel’s lighter grates on his nerves, increasing with Castiel’s first drag. To his credit, he blows the smoke out the window instead of back into the car—or, in Dean’s face, like Tanner did last month. “Where did you even get those?”

“Gallup,” Castiel says around his cigarette.

“So that’s why that guy was chasing us.” Also why Dean can never stop in Gallup again.

“I’m not as stealthy as I once was,” Castiel says. “They have cameras now.”

“Yeah, well, don’t want people in there stealing their inventory,” Dean considers. “Just be glad he didn’t have a gun.”

Castiel huffs a laugh and crosses an ankle over a knee, tapping the ashes out the window. “Guns don’t hurt me. I can be bound and tied, but I’ll survive. Luckily for the congregation, I’m not interested in revenge.”

Interesting—a creature that isn’t interested in murdering entire droves of humans just because they stepped on their toe. Or, in this case, attempted to reenact the crucifixion. “What were you gonna do if no one found you?”

Castiel cocks his head, blowing smoke through his nose. At least with the windows down, the interior won’t smell as bad. “Can I tell you something if you agree to never tell another soul?”

Wary, Dean nods, keeping his eyes on the two-lane.

“I knew someone was coming,” Castiel sighs. “And I told myself, if they came soon, then I would wait for them. Only, I never expected it to be you.” He turns and sucks in another long pull, letting it out towards the dashboard. “I expected a vagrant, or a farmer, or one of the congregation to have a change of heart. All they were interested in was getting my blood, though. That’s what they don’t know.” With nimble fingers, Castiel crushes the rest of his cigarette in the ash tray in the arm rest. “Angel blood is only powerful when it’s willingly given.”

 _Huh_. “So what, they thought you’d cure them?”

“In essence. The most they did was fix an ingrown toenail.”

All that for a cure for fungus—some people must really be spiritually desperate. “For what it’s worth, kinda glad it was me,” Dean says; a smile lights up Castiel’s face, blue eyes gleaming in the sun. “Don’t read into that.”

“Oh, you’re interesting,” Castiel remarks; Dean marvels at the heat that rolls off him as Castiel moves closer, sliding his hand along the inside of Dean’s thigh. “Why aren’t you interested?”

In what? What makes Castiel think he’s interested? It’s not like Dean woke up with Castiel spooning him or anything, or that Dean’s dick has been perky ever since he wandered into that church. Three months without a lay, and Dean is jonesing for any touch, no matter who—the fact that Castiel is attached to those hands though, all that power confined in human flesh and warmth, only makes it more difficult not to give in.

“I don’t know you,” Dean admits, only half a lie; he’s slept with men for less, in more disgusting places than he cares to admit. But Castiel is different—despite his apparent perma-erection, Castiel just feels… unusual, special. If only he wasn’t stinking up the car and threatening to crawl into Dean’s jeans whenever he wants. “And no offense, buddy, but you’re coming on strong.”

Castiel considers that, eyes to the roof; Dean regrets it the second Castiel moves away, the absence of his heat even more oppressing than the midday sun bearing down on them. Only another hour, and they can hide in the shade. He should’ve headed north, out of the heat, maybe to Canada. It’s cold there, right? “I apologize if I’ve upset you,” Castiel says, more remorseful than Dean has ever heard.

In no way should he feel ashamed, but even then, he does. Castiel has paid more attention to him—albeit extremely inappropriately—than anyone has in the last few months, but he hasn’t prodded Dean with questions about if he came out, hasn’t harassed him about having a boyfriend—an excuse to escape bars and the skeevy men that haunt them—and hasn’t offered money on the spot.

No, all Castiel has done is touch him over his clothes, never anywhere sensitive, and he’s listened. Figures, an Angel is more hospitable than his own kind. “You’re… It’s fine,” Dean sighs, loosening his grip on the leather. “Just not used to people actually looking at me, y’know? Most guys I partner with, they automatically assume because I’m…”

“Gay,” Castiel finishes, and Dean nods.

“Just ‘cause I’m gay, they think I’m down.”

“So you assumed I’d be like them?” Castiel asks. Again, Dean nods; just barely, he shies away when Castiel touches him, softer now, over his shoulder. “Anything you want to do, you have to tell me yes or no. If you’re not ready, I’ll stop.”

Dean mulls it over. “Big on consent, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Castiel agrees with mirth. “Unlike demons, Angels always ask permission.”

Great—not only does Dean have a kleptomaniac in the car, but an honest one, to boot. “Then I wanna go camping, if you’re into that,” Dean states; at his side, Castiel agrees and kicks his feet up on the dashboard, bare toes pressed against glass. _No respect_. “Got a tent and everything.”

“I think I’m starting to like you,” Castiel states the obvious, and Dean just laughs.

-+-

Parking inside Monument Valley only costs twenty bucks, and another twenty-five to camp, more than Dean was expecting to spend for the night, especially after gas. That hundred dollars got him here, and hopefully the other two-hundred from last week will get him to Texas, and maybe to the Gulf, if he stays frugal.

All around the gravel-filled drive is red rocks and scrub brush, and giant rock formations left behind by glaciers further in the valley, oddly resembling mittens. As hot as it is—nearly ninety five today, and scalding in the sun—Dean can’t help but stand along the valley’s edge and stare while Castiel tinkers with Dean’s cellphone, trying to bring up the camera app. Upon Dean’s insistence, they’d both put on different shirts, and Dean changed into shorts in the backseat, all while Castiel watched over the lip of the front bench. A good idea in hindsight, but horrible for the weather.

By the time they get the tent set up along the hillside with the few other visitors stupid enough to brave the heat, the sun is beginning to set, the endless blue sky growing dark as the minutes pass. “Woulda been better if we could’ve afforded the trailers over there,” Dean says, pulling open the door flap and sliding inside, just barely managing to fit beside Castiel. Their sleeping bags take up the floor, hardly any room for the cooler sitting near the door. Cold water has never felt so good in his life.

All the while, Castiel watches him and reads the book in his hands; it’s not even English, supposedly a photo album and a history of the land they’re camping on. “You can, but as you said, you weren’t willing to spend the money,” Castiel chimes in. “We could’ve showered together.”

If Dean weren’t already red from the sun, he’d probably turn another shade darker. “Okay, question,” he begins, soft—God help the people who can hear them. “Have you ever even had sex?”

Castiel lowers his book and thinks, one hand running down the length of his chest, to the patch of skin visible beneath his shirt. “With humans or with Angels?”

 _Lord have mercy_. “Either,” Dean squeaks.

“Both, significantly more with Angels, though. But I’ll admit,” and he rolls over onto his side, sweatpants pulled tight around his waist, dick apparently almost always aroused—and worse, Castiel doesn’t even realize it. Or, he has the world’s most impressive poker face. “Humans are more fun. I’ve always been a fan of this.” He touches Dean’s arm for emphasis, a single finger skirting to his chest over his shirt, down his stomach, stopping at his waistband; Dean practically melts from anticipation. “We don’t feel as much in our true forms, but here, it’s… intoxicating.

“I once laid with a woman in Paris,” Castiel continues, scooting closer; Dean lets out a breath, stomach tightening from proximity, from Castiel’s hand resting on his hip. “She let me delve into her for hours before she opened herself to me, wholly, completely. She didn’t care what I was, so long as she got her fill.” Castiel rests their foreheads together, hooking one leg over Dean’s. “The closeness, the intensity of your soul, your body yielding under mine… I want it all.”

“Castiel,” Dean whispers, barely audible. “Cas…”

“Say my name,” Castiel says, and kisses him.

Dean immediately flattens himself into his sleeping bag, Castiel half draping himself over him, arms to either side of Dean’s head; in haste, Dean clings to him in return, threading his fingers through the mess of Castiel’s hair, fisting Castiel’s shirt near the hem, wanting nothing more than to tug it over his head, solely to feel. Holding off was a bad idea—now, Dean kisses him with lust, tongue licking along the soft curve of Castiel’s lower lip, occasionally pulling it between his teeth just to hear him pant, to hear Castiel moan softly in the late afternoon air.

 _Someone could be watching_ , Dean thinks; as far as they camped though, considerably farther away from the grounds than the rest of the tourists, no one will notice how Dean spreads his legs and Castiel strokes over his shorts, cupping his firmness in one hand. “Let me get you off,” Castiel whispers, hot in Dean’s ear.

Heatedly, Castiel presses himself to Dean’s side and guides him, resting Dean’s head in the crook of his elbow. It shouldn’t be this hot—Dean shouldn’t be sweating through his shirt, shouldn’t be as thirsty as he is for this, for everything Castiel has to offer. “Please,” Dean managers, and bites back a shout when Castiel dives in.

His hands—oh, Castiel’s hands are magnificent, undoing the fly of his shorts and tugging him free of his briefs, the fat, wet head of his cock peeking through Castiel’s fist. Dean pants against Castiel’s lips, occasionally kissing when he can breathe, other times too concentrated in fucking up into Castiel’s hand, just to see precome spill over in thick spurts. “Touch me,” Castiel says, a suggestion, but one that Dean accepts with ardor.

Castiel’s pants are easier to get into, especially considering he completely skipped the lesson on wearing underwear this morning. Even without sight, he strokes along Castiel’s shaft, occasionally thumbing across the thick head of his cock, gathering up the wetness there and slicking his way. Everything about it is maddening, the way Castiel touches him, holds him like they’ve known each other for years, old friends reunited. It certainly feels that way—maybe in a past life, they were lovers. “Cas,” Dean moans, free hand covering Castiel’s where he strokes Dean’s cock, only to thread their fingers together. “God, Cas…”

“So good,” Castiel stutters; aimless, he kisses Dean’s neck until he fixates on a spot beneath his ear, sucking and licking until Dean writhes in his grasp. “You’re so close.”

“‘M gonna come,” Dean warns. Intentionally, he speeds up his hand, and Castiel copies him, their moans in tandem, hearts in sync.

Dean comes first, stifling his groan into Castiel’s forearm; white paints the front of his shirt as he finishes, hips still thrusting up into their joined hands, unwilling to let go. “Good,” Castiel praises, Dean’s face flushing even redder, and Castiel follows, his thick release pooling in Dean’s fist, dripping through his fingers and staining the front of his pants.

This is messy—this is highly unsanitary, but Dean kisses Castiel anyway, smiling against his lips. “You’re gonna get us in trouble,” he chuckles, nearly a giggle.

Castiel finds it amusing, nevertheless. “I’ll keep them away from you,” he soothes, nuzzling into Dean’s neck. “You’re safe here.”

And, Dean can’t help but think, he does feel safe here, despite the heat and the danger. Here in the arms of an Angel, no one can touch him—no one can hurt him, not anymore.

-+-

With the sunset comes the desert chill, and with the chill comes Dean waking to an empty tent and a suspiciously cold mattress. At some point, Castiel left, the tent flap zipped to the top—at least he’s not inconsiderate. “Better not’ve left,” Dean complains and sits up, reaching for his nightshirt and tennis shoes. Maneuvering alone is easier than having to dodge Castiel’s giant frame though, leaving him ample room to pull his clothing back on and slip through the door, closing it in his wake.

In the light of the moon, the landscape is incredible, the valley never truly ending in the dark, the desert’s fingers illuminated, casting long, dark shadows to the very edges. Where, incidentally, Dean spots the flick of a lighter again and again, extinguishing for long bouts. He’s smoking—Castiel snuck off to smoke in the middle of the night, where he could possibly be attacked by whatever wildlife is out there, the dogs that keep scrounging for food, the coyotes, rattlesnakes—Dean shudders with the thought.

The closer Dean treads through the red dirt, the earthier the air begins to reek, a smell Dean is too familiar with to stomach. “Oh god,” Dean complains, shaking his head. Not that Castiel can see him here, anyway; Castiel is too busy apparently getting high in the moonlight like some hippie. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Castiel looks over to him, startled yet calm. “Tricked a kid into giving it to me for free,” he smiles, teeth illuminated white. “Sit with me. Have you ever seen the stars?”

Of course Dean has seen the stars. Some places across the country, he can see them better than others, the cities barren, the countryside filled. Here, though, with the waxing moon overhead, Dean has to blink to fully comprehend what he’s seeing. “Whoa,” he breathes.

Together, they lay back, Castiel with an arm behind his head, Dean resting his on his stomach. “God wasn’t the one that created the stars,” Castiel says, voice rough with smoke, an octave deeper; Dean is drawn to it regardless, closing his eyes to the night, “Kakabel was in charge of their conception. ‘Star of God,’ was his designation. After the creation of the Angels, God disappeared and left us to our duties. Kakabel’s was to lay every star in the sky.” He stops for another drag, offering it to Dean. Dean declines; he has to drive tomorrow, and he would prefer to do it without a migraine.

“Are you religious, Dean?” Castiel asks through a yawn.

“Depends,” Dean says, kicking his foot in the dirt. “Do I know gods exist? Yeah, and the ones that haven’t tried to kill me at first sight have been swell. But do I put my faith in them?” He shakes his head, letting his chest deflate with his exhale. “Not really the praying type.”

Another drag; Castiel blows smoke rings above his head, practiced. How long has he been out here, anyway? “Religion is manufactured, but some of the stories are true. After all, I’m here.” He laughs. “We have different names in many tongues. The stories are the same, no matter where you go. The flood, the fall of nations, the end of the world—different names, the same people.”

It makes sense from what Dean can follow, his sleep-addled brain just now catching up. “You said Kakabel had a designation,” he starts, opening his eyes to the cloudless sky. “What’s yours?”

Castiel extinguishes the end of his blunt with the tips of two fingers, afterwards shoving it into the pocket of his jacket—Dean’s jacket, stolen from him after nightfall. “Angel of Thursday. Though, I preside over Jupiter in some instances. I’ve never had to take the post.”

“All of Thursday, huh?” Dean turns to face him, leaning up on one elbow. “What do you do with a whole day?”

“Sachiel holds the head post, and I’m second in command. I haven’t seen Assasiel in ages, though. We received prayers for a while, but recently, we’ve been forgotten.” Castiel sighs, long and slow, despair-tinged. “We used to be worshiped, Dean. After our names were no longer called, some of us…” He stops, sits up. “After a while, we just assumed they died, or Fell. No one asked, no one wanted to know.”

 _Oh_. “Cas…” Slowly, Dean pushes himself up, wincing from the rocks under his palms. Castiel falls into his embrace, startled at first, but eventually melts, one hand brought around Dean’s waist. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll remember your name.”

Castiel holds him tighter in reply, nose pressed to Dean’s neck. “You’re too kind,” he whispers. “You don’t have to.”

“Want to. Besides, you said you wanted to go to the beach.”

Castiel pulls back. “You want me to stay?”

“Kinda hoped you would.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean looks away, only to have Castiel tilt his gaze forward. His eyes glow in the night, brighter than the moon. “…Just don’t smoke in the car.”

Ever so slightly, Castiel’s smile softens, lush against Dean’s lips. “You’re perfect,” he says. “Beautiful, my Dean.”

“You’re just saying that because I sucked you off earlier,” Dean snorts. Yet, he still blushes, flushing warm under Castiel’s fingers, lips pressing to a mark Dean knows is there, even without a mirror. “Cas…”

“Shh,” Castiel soothes. “Watch the stars.”

Dean couldn’t turn him down if he tried.

-+-

Bouncing doesn’t ease the ache in Dean’s bladder, nor does counting or watching the cars pass on the interstate passing through Belen. Pumping gas has never seemed so monotonous before, the rhythmic routine doing nothing to soothe him or keep his mind off the fact that Castiel has spent the last five minutes inside the Phillips 66 probably seeing how much candy he can shove into his pockets for the second time in a day. The first time, Dean caught him in the act; this time, Castiel is on his own.

“Come on,” Dean hisses, pressing the heel of his hand to his zipper, like it’ll do something to solve his problem. Pulling the nozzle free takes his mind off it for a few seconds, along with fiddling through his wallet for his debit card; two bucks a gallon doesn’t hurt that bad—at least it’s not the Shell in Needles.

_Never again._

“Hurry up,” Castiel shouts from across the parking lot; Dean looks over his shoulder after he takes his receipt, shock turning to terror. Castiel sprints from the doors and practically launches himself through the passenger window, lying flat on the leather, out of sight of the attendant running outside, frantically looking in every direction. “I’m not here,” Castiel whispers, covering his head with a plastic bag, contents heavy. “Don’t make any sudden movements.”

 _What the fuck are you doing_? is Dean’s first thought. The attendant overrides it, shouting at Dean, hands cupped around his mouth, asking whether or not he’s seen anyone run from the shop. Dean shakes his head—what is he supposed to do, say, ‘Yeah, he jumped in my car’? Shoulders drooping, the attendant reenters the store, leaving Dean to climb back in the driver’s seat and crank the engine. Apparently, he won’t be using the restroom until the next town. Not the news he wanted right now.

Castiel doesn’t speak—or move, for that matter—until Dean reaches the highway again, bolting upright from his seat in a fit of hysteric laughter. “What the fuck did you do?” Dean accuses. Castiel buckles himself back in, minutely calming Dean’s nerves. “Did you rob the poor kid?”

“I got a six pack and a box of condoms,” Castiel wheezes, wiping his eyes. “Apparently it was his first day.”

 _What an impression_. “You probably gave him a heart attack,” Dean grouses. Castiel just laughs harder, patting Dean’s thigh. “I’m serious Cas, you can’t just go around doing stuff like that.”

“Why not?” Lazily, Castiel props his feet up on the dashboard, sandals sitting in the footwell. “Don’t tell me you’ve never shoplifted.”

 _Do not murder the Angel, do not murder the Angel_. “Yeah, but not blatantly. Look, you wanna do that, you sneak in after hours, stay out of the way of the cameras. Or else, they’ll know your license plate and— _shit_.” Dean swerves onto the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath his tires. “I gotta change the plates.”

Castiel blinks. “Oh.”

A two minute process, tops; in this heat, it takes Dean at least four, the extra time spent trying to keep the screwdriver in his hand, sweat dripping from his fingers into the dirt. Florida will do until he can actually sit down and think about what he’s doing; Nebraska has had a long three months. “It’s not a big deal,” Dean says after he finishes, climbing into the driver’s seat. Reaching over the seat, he pulls a towel from the back bench and dries his face and hands. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been here, but people have cameras now, and they can use those tapes to track plate numbers.”

“So if they find you, they’ll arrest you?” Castiel asks, head tilted.

Dean nods, toweling the back of his neck. “If they find out you’re with me. With the way you jumped in the car, the kid’s probably trying to find out everything about who owns Baby.”

Castiel squints. “You named your car?”

“Of course,” Dean says, biting back exasperation. “If you had a car, you’d name her too, I bet.”

“I did have a car once,” Castiel says; he takes Dean’s towel and wipes his face with a dry end, afterwards peeling off his shirt and drying the sweat staining his skin. Just barely, Dean looks away and starts the engine. “A Model B, painted black with a rumble seat. In fact,” he leans over just as Dean pulls back onto the road, “the first time I ever got laid—”

“God,” Dean groans. “Two days ago I’d never seen an Angel, and now I’m stuck with a nympho.”

“Actually, what you’re looking for is satyriasist,” Castiel informs him, matter of fact.

“Either way,” Dean huffs. “Look… I really like you sticking around, but you need to chill, okay? You can’t just do smash and grabs in broad daylight and not face the consequences. You may not be human, but I am.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, compliant, probably against his will. He sounds sincere, though, comforting in the sudden rawness of his words. “If I promise to not get caught, can I still smoke?”

“If you can get out of there without a cashier on your ass, then all’s right with me,” Dean says; Castiel shouldn’t be doing it regardless, but as long as he’s not stealing lottery tickets or anything pricy, then they may be able to steer clear of the authorities. “And I told you, no smoking in the car.”

“With the windows down?” Castiel suggests. “You don’t seem to be intent on fixing the air conditioner any time soon.”

Dean hits his head on the headrest. “Soon as I get another contract, then I’ll stop by a mechanic, or at least get the parts. Pretty sure rats chewed through the lines.”

“Let’s hope so.” Castiel bends over to wipe down his legs. “I promise I won’t steal from the register, at least.”

Dean smiles, wary. “I’ll hold you to that, then.”

-+-

Dean finds a job around midnight, back propped against the headboard while Castiel snores at his side, an arm around Dean’s waist. Dean balances his laptop on Castiel’s arm, the light from the screen his only illumination, aside from the orange and blue from the Motel 6 sign pouring through the ground-floor window shades. Certainly not the best lodgings, but it’s all Dean can afford until he gets to… Panama City, apparently. Maybe a few days sleeping in the car will get them by.

The man who answers the phone—Jason Bell, or so he says—tells him about the local rumor in town, that someone is loitering around the bars in town, and days later, a body shows up on the beach, naked and apparently drained of life, bone-thin and eyeless. “No one’s ever seen the guy’s face, and all the descriptions are different. Sometimes it’s a dude, sometimes a chick. Sometimes a ten, sometimes a two. Either way, people’re disappearing and it’s starting to terrify the locals.”

“Any idea what you think you’re looking at?” Dean asks, running his fingers through Castiel’s hair with his free hand.

“Friend says he thinks it’s a siren, but the signs don’t match. Neither does a kelpie. What do you know about incubi?”

 _Oh, gross_. “Demon cocksuckers, give you the best ride of your life ’til you wind up dead? Think it fits the bill?”

“It’d explain why they look like they’ve been in the desert for a year,” Jason says. “Five hundred’s in it if you can get the guy, an additional hundred if you find more than one.”

“You got it.” Reaching over for the hotel pen and notepad, Dean writes down Jason’s contact information and the amounts. “I’m in Las Cruces right now, I can be there in two days.”

“Good deal. Sooner this thing’s outta my hair, the better.”

Dean hangs up and closes his laptop as gingerly as he can, setting it on the bedside table, out of the way of the clock radio and the desk lamp. Castiel grabs him in the interim, shoving his face into Dean’s hip and sighing against Dean’s bare stomach. “Wanna fuck you,” Castiel mutters, barely cognizant, and mouths a wet mark just above the waistband of Dean’s briefs, aimless and messy. “Dean…”

“Not tonight.” Shoving Castiel away doesn’t work, nor does physically forcing Castiel’s head away from his stomach. “Cas, c’mon. Long drive tomorrow.”

“You say that like it’ll make a difference,” Castiel whines—actually whines; if he were awake, he’d probably be pouting.

“It is when I’ve gotta sit down all day.” This time, Castiel falls away, only until Dean situates himself on his side. After that, Castiel wraps himself fully around him, tucking his leg between Dean’s, draping an arm over his waist. “Clingy, aren’t you?”

“Hush, I’m trying to sleep,” Castiel jeers.

If Dean weren’t so exhausted, he’d fight him, shoot back a “So am I” and be done with it. Instead, he just burrows back into Castiel’s arms and warms when Castiel pulls him closer, pressing a single kiss to his nape. “Gonna be the death of me,” Dean whispers, but Castiel is already asleep. And not long after, so is Dean.

-+-

The black clouds that have been following them since San Antonio give way to a torrential downpour outside Seguin, visibility dropping next to nothing in thirty seconds flat. Luckily, Dean manages to tell Castiel—or shout at him in the most panicked squeal he can—to roll the windows up before the first drop falls, purely on instinct. No one has been on Interstate 10 for an hour, far enough outside of the city limits for Dean’s mind to begin to wander and his spine to ache; almost seven hours in the car already, with another four. If only he trusted Castiel enough to drive.

Parking on the side of the road, Dean shuts off the engine and looks over the steering wheel at the pure gray beyond the windshield, rain thudding against the glass and ricocheting. Thunder sounds in the not-too-far distance, streaking across the sky. “Looks like we’re stuck here ’til it passes,” Dean tells Castiel, peering up at the rain. In the passenger seat, Castiel stares out of his window, transfixed, fingers pressed to the quickly-fogging pane. “You good to sit here?”

“I haven’t seen rain in a while,” Castiel says absent, just before Dean practically leaps out of his seat—Castiel fucking opens the door and leaves in the middle of the storm, slamming it behind him, the silence deafening.

 _Stupid son of a—_ “Cas,” Dean roars and yanks his seat belt off. His feet won’t cooperate with him in his escape, and neither will his arms. Water soaks the seat from Castiel’s exit, and Dean only adds to it, rain pouring in the second he opens the door. No umbrella, no poncho, no jacket—nothing but his hands to shield his face. “Cas, you get—”

Castiel’s wings effectively cut off his train of thought. Black, massive appendages stretch towards the sky from Castiel’s bare back, twisted along the top arch, not quite healed but better than when Dean saw him in the barn, warped from his fall from the ceiling. Water glides off the feathers with ease, almost acting as his own personal shield from the storm; all Dean wants to do is crawl under there with him, half to hide.

Ahead, lighting blazes across the clouds, thunder chasing right behind. “Cas,” Dean shouts over the roar, palming Castiel’s shoulder. A chill replaces the warmth Dean has come to know, summer heat dwindled to a somewhat-pleasant humidity. Petrichor blankets the field, clings to anything, everything. “Are you alright?”

“What?” Castiel glances at him over his shoulder, feathers ruffling to shake the water free. He spins on his bare heel in the field, wings pulled tight against his back. “I missed this, the… power of it. Can you feel the wind?” He touches Dean’s cheek, thumbing under his eye. “I used to watch them from Heaven and Earth, listening to the rain on tin rooftops, the wind roaring through trees. Thunder that never ends with inversion. Heat lightning, balls that streak across the sky… It never ceases to amaze me, just how powerful it is, how alone you feel in the wild, how at one you can become.

“Can you feel it?” Slowly, Castiel trails a finger down, following the curve of Dean’s throat, to his chest, palm splayed over his heart, where it no doubt beats wildly against his hand. Dean swallows and pants into the open air, Castiel’s wings now covering him, the rain shoved out of the way, sliding off to their sides. Under them, Dean smells ozone and wet grass, strange and capitvating. “Can you feel me?”

“Yes,” Dean exhales, just before he surges forward, hands in Castiel’s hair, lips crushed against his. Castiel clutches him back just as tight, wings cocooning his back and practically hoisting him up into their embrace. Thunder continues its wild cacophony around them, the wind whistling through Castiel’s wings, but Dean can’t bring himself to care about any of it, his soaked clothes, ruined shoes, damp hair—none of it matters in Castiel’s arms, protected, adored. “Cas…” he pants between kisses, Castiel’s hand creeping under his shirt, startling a whimper from him.

“Listen,” is all Castiel says, head lifted to the clouds. “Listen to it.”

 _How can I, though_? Dean thinks— _all I can see is him_.

-+-

“Supposed to be a massage,” Dean whimpers into the mattress, head rocking against a pillow, sheets between his teeth; Castiel pins his wrists into the bedding with one hand, the other digging into his hip, guiding him into each thrust, rough and wet and _awesome_. “Cas— _fuck_ —”

Castiel moans low in his throat, mouthing aimlessly across Dean’s nape, nails digging in tighter; the pain spurs Dean on, teeth grinding the blankets in a failing effort to stifle his groans. “I’ve been thinking about this,” Castiel grunts, “about how you’d yield to me.” With a shove, Castiel releases his hands and sits back, fingers embedding into Dean’s hips and forcing him back, meeting him for every shove, every slick slide of his cock into Dean. “ _Fuck_ , it’s never been like this.”

If he weren’t too enrapt at the way Castiel manages to tag his prostate with every thrust, Dean would laugh—all he can manage now is to cry out, muffled only when Castiel yanks him up by the shoulder and covers his mouth, shoving two fingers inside; Dean sucks them greedily, tonguing between the two digits. Castiel nips his neck in return, just enough of a tease to send heat shooting to Dean’s cock, red and leaking between his legs.

It’s ridiculous, how much he wants this. Dean can count the number of men he’s slept with in the past, but none of them have ever gotten him as hard as Castiel does, and Castiel doesn’t even have to touch him to do it. Though, touching helps; on his knees, Castiel reaches around and fists his cock, meeting every stroke with another push, hard enough to topple Dean over, if not for Castiel’s hand around his chest. “ _Fuck_ ,” Dean whines around Castiel’s fingers, tears threatening the corners of his eyes. He’s so close, he can taste it.

“Let me see you,” Castiel begs, releasing his fingers; Dean mourns the absence for as long as he can, Castiel distracting him by pulling out and throwing him onto his back. After that, Castiel moves like a madman, shoving his cock back inside and bending Dean’s legs over his shoulders, knees tucked against elbows—and Dean moves willingly, hands fisted behind him into a pillow, all he can think to hold onto. Castiel’s knees offer little give, and his shoulders shake with exertion, the power hidden in them frightening, terrifying in a way Dean can’t comprehend.

All of the excitement, all of the lust pooling inside of him, forces him to come into his own hand, stripping his cock as quickly as he can as orgasm takes hold, his body cripplingly claustrophobic, tight in his skin. Castiel fucks him through his constant moans, refusing to pull out when he comes into the condom, sucking in breath after breath, chest heaving. Only then does he let Dean’s legs fall, a position Dean willingly takes without a fight.

At some point, Castiel leaves the bed to trash the condom, afterwards coming back with a wet washcloth from the bathroom. Dean barely hears him, too concentrated on trying to breathe without passing out, his cock still twitching against his hip, too soft to do much else with for now. “You’re gonna kill me,” Dean wheezes, covering his eyes. Castiel returns to the bed and begins to wipe down Dean’s chest, Dean quivering every time Castiel ventures near his ribs. “I’m serious, you’re gonna— _stop that_ —”

One of Dean’s regrettable weaknesses—ticklishness. Even after the mess they’ve made of the towel beneath Dean’s ass and the sheets, after the solid twenty minutes of shouting through the walls and probably scaring every resident at the Econo Lodge in Beaumont, it’s Castiel tickling his ribs that gets him shrieking, involuntary laughter seizing his lungs. “You’re incredible,” Castiel praises, chuckling with him.

He stops shortly after, capturing Dean’s lips in a kiss Dean has no intention of pulling away from. “Not so bad yourself,” Dean grins. Castiel curls closer, tucking their legs together; a wing envelops Dean, the other lying at an odd angle over the edge of the bed, neglected. Softly, he pets his fingers through it, the feathers shivering under his touch, the faint sound of chimes audible. “Don’t think it’s been that good… ever.”

“I’ll give praise to whatever you have in that bottle,” Castiel says, all the bit sincere.

Dean smiles, kisses his nose. “Welcome to the future, we have lube.”

“Olive oil always proved cumbersome,” Castiel snickers. “Do you need me to heal you?”

Dean snorts despite the sudden crick in his neck; right, that was why they were in bed in the first place, and why Castiel decided to turn a completely platonic massage into anything but. Not that it wasn’t enjoyable—but Dean really did intend to actually get a massage, his muscles aching from the nearly twelve and a half hour drive into near spasm. “Think you can actually do what you said you would?” Dean asks, accusatory and playful.

Castiel pats his cheek and urges him to roll over onto his back. “I don’t need to sleep, so if you nod off, I don’t mind,” Castiel says. Pressing his fingers into Dean’s back, Dean lets out a grunt, eyes slipping closed against the sheets. He may be laying in a mess, but with the way Castiel kneads between his shoulder blades and his nape, he can’t bring himself to care. Something white hot courses just beneath his skin from every press, and faintly, Dean thinks it’s whatever exists in Castiel, soothing pained, aching joints that have plagued him for years.

Just before he falls asleep, he feels Castiel kiss his nape, smiling into him. “Rest,” he says, like Dean has any choice.

-+-

They escape the motel around four in the morning, Castiel more observant than Dean’s sleep-eaten brain when the police pull up and park by the front office. Whether they’re planning to canvas the entire hotel and all five floors, Dean doesn’t care to find out. Just before the cops reach the second floor, they successfully dodge the authorities and the desk staff and stow their overnight bags in the backseat, peeling out of the parking lot the exact opposite of when they arrived—in haste, bone dry, and terrified.

The rain puts a damper on most of their ten hour drive, today starting off a few hours early, Interstate 10 horrifyingly dark with weather. From what Dean could glean from the local news yesterday afternoon, some tropical system has decided to form within the last day and dump inches of rain all the way across the south, centralizing a few hundred miles from the Texas and Louisiana border. As far as Dean is concerned, summer can suck it—hopefully Panama City will be better.

“How did your parents react when you came out?” Castiel asks in the parking lot of the Burger King in Gulfport, and Dean chokes on his fries.

“How did—” Dean initially stammers, beating on his chest. _Swallow, breathe_. “I… haven’t told them,” he says, proceeding to shove the rest of his hamburger into his mouth, probably too big of a bite to be safe. Anything to distract him from this conversation. “Mom’s a lawyer, dad’s a cop. Figure if the old man gets pissed, mom’ll talk sense into him. …I’m not hurting anyone, so I don’t think they’ll care.”

“Unless someone walks in on you,” Castiel adds, which—true. But even then, the last place Dean would ever take someone would be home with wandering eyes; the backseat of the Impala has worked wonders in the past. “Hypothetically,” Castiel starts, sticking his finger into his cherry slushee and sucking it off his finger, “if you were to take me home, how do you think they’d react?”

Dean looks him over for a moment, Castiel clothed today in shorts and the same water soaked shirt from yesterday, this time dry; still with bare feet, with dark shadowing around his ja and dark circles under his eyes, his hair unbrushed but smelling faintly of hotel soap. “You think you could bullshit your way through cars?”

“All my knowledge is from the Appalachians in the ‘30s, if your father likes older vehicles.”

“Actually, my mom,” Dean laughs. “Her dad raced stock cars back in the ‘70s, and still does. My dad’s gotten into it recently, watching though. The man gets nervous when mom drives over 80 on the highway.”

Ecstatic, Castiel smiles. “I have a feeling we’d get along fine.”

“Yeah.” Dean lowers his head, grin slipping from his face. “You’d really wanna come back with me? Y’know, whenever I decide to go back.”

“I wouldn’t turn you down,” Castiel shrugs. “I’m not saying today. Whenever you’re ready. Next week, next year, even if we’re still talking tomorrow. That’s your decision. Heaven’s abandoned me, and while I’m here, I’d like to see the sunrise.”

“We can do that.” Crumpling up the wrapper from his meal, Dean tosses the wad into the paper bag on the floorboards, Castiel’s already at the bottom. “Gotta pull your weight around here, though. How’s your fighting?”

“I led a garrison against Azazel’s forces during a siege against hell,” Castiel muses. “And won.”

Wow—okay, demon killer. “Tag team?”

“As you said,” Castiel pats his thigh, “pull your weight.”

Dean rolls his eyes, groaning, “Don’t know what I was expecting,” and Castiel just laughs in return.

-+-

“Another body washed up yesterday,” Jason Bell tells Dean, closing the door behind Castiel. He doesn’t look like a normal police officer—more like he just walked off the golf course, Hawaiian t-shirt and knee-length khakis, the fluorescent lights bouncing off his head. Older, maybe in his early fifties, but tired in a way that reminds Dean of war veterans. “Girl this time, she went missing last week. Her brother’s been worried sick, and I had to call him just to listen to him break a lamp.”

“Tourist?” Castiel asks, seating himself in one of the sheriff’s armchairs. _Plush office_ , Dean thinks, just barely resisting the urge to sit with him.

“Local,” Jason says. He rubs the bridge of his nose. “If y’all two can find the guy before the night’s over with, I’d greatly appreciate it.” He stops to eye Castiel, then looks over to Dean. “Am I paying him?”

“Just me,” Dean answers. As much as Dean would appreciate the bonus, he needs to determine if Castiel is the right fit for him on the job. Obvious or not—Castiel is an Angel, after all, a warrior of God—Dean needs physical proof. “What bar has it been frequenting?”

“Gay bar down on the coast.” Jason hands Dean a flyer, advertising spring break—old, but the address is listed at the bottom, along with open and close times. “The storm’s starting to head this way, and red flag warnings’ll be out in the morning. If y’all wanna get on this, that’d be appreciated by all of us. Also, here.” He rips a sheet off his legal pad, passing it to Castiel. "My sister’s in Tampa for the week and her beach house is free. Long as y’all don’t destroy it, you’re welcome there ’til you’re done.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard better news in his life. Free lodgings, and he can spend time in town looking for a mechanic without blowing through his newly earned cash. “It require walking?” Dean asks.

Jason shakes his head. “Three blocks away. It’s painted neon blue, you can’t miss it.”

-+-

It really is neon blue, Dean thinks, dragging his duffel from underneath the false panel in the trunk. A rickety awning covers the pitiful excuse for a porch, and Bailey’s palms dotting the sand-filled grass yard, disused in recent years. Inside isn’t any better: the kitchen is filled with cutlery and pots but no food, rabbit ears sit on top of the television in the living room, and there’s a large burn mark on the couch Dean has no intention of asking about.

“It’s a nice color,” Castiel says in the bedroom. The general shape of the house may be discouraging, but at least the walls are nice to look at, a gentle sky blue that offsets everything else. And, apparently, the mattress is in excellent shape, taking up over three quarters of the room. Still the same blue, still as pleasant. “How long do you think we’ll stay?”

“Probably ‘til Sunday,” Dean says, dropping his bag by the closet door. “Unless there’s bed bugs, in which case I’d rather squat in a hotel.”

“I think we’re safe here,” Castiel smiles. “It’s a shame it’s raining, though. I doubt they’d let us onto the beach.”

Dean snorts, flopping down onto the mattress. “Long as we don’t get in the water like idiots, I think we can walk out there just fine. A lot better than the heat though. Swear, I’ve gotten two shades darker.”

“You look good tanned.” Gingerly, Castiel leans over to kiss him, no more than a tease, a promise of the future. “What clothes do you have?”

And that’s the kicker—the last Dean went to a club of any kind, he still had blood on his pants and rips in his shirt, leading to questions about whether he was in town for a convention or if he had been to the previous night’s event and just woke up in the gutter. Neither of which were true, but the broken rib sure left him feeling like he just went ten rounds. This place, Dean isn’t sure what the etiquette is, or even if people care, especially with a tropical storm bearing down on them. Would anyone even be there, anyway?

Their attire, after Dean rifles through his belongings, consists of the tightest jeans he owns and a shirt that fits tight on him but threatens to rip off Castiel. Dean adjusts himself while Castiel ogles his reflection in the bathroom, willing himself to chill for two seconds—just because Castiel looks nice in his clothes doesn’t mean he needs to take them off the second he puts them on. Damn his libido.

“If the incubus is there tonight,” Castiel starts upon exiting the house, Dean locking the front door behind them, “I think you’re a more susceptible target.”

Shoving the keys in his back pocket, Dean rolls his eyes. “Why, ‘cause I’m so pretty?”

“I was going to say young, but yes, that too,” Castiel smirks.

He brushes Dean’s shoulder, snaking his hand around Dean’s waist; Dean flushes and falls into it, leaning back against Castiel’s side. Even with the chill in the air and the wind beginning to stir through the palms, Castiel is warm, a beacon in the night.

Nine in the evening brings a light rain and a small line beginning to form out the door to Splash, the facade lit by bright red and green neon. They get in solely on Jason’s recommendation written onto the same legal paper as before, like they’re teenagers needing a doctor’s note. No IDs needed, a ten dollar cover, and they’re in the door, the air sweltering, charged with an electricity that excites Dean more than it should.

“So what, you’ll keep watch?” Dean says at the bar, Castiel plastered to his back and nipping at his earlobe. “Cas, concentrate.”

“I am concentrating,” Castiel rumbles deep in his throat. “You should dance. Like you said, I’ll keep watch.”

Dean sputters. “I was just asking,” he blurts out, just before someone taps his shoulder—or, actually, grabs him, the firm grip betrayed by the thin frame of the man— _boy_ —bearing it.

He can’t be legal, or he’s very close to turning eighteen, but he’s lean, tight in a way Dean was nearly ten years ago, all muscle and long lashes and bottle black hair. “Dance with me?” he asks in a rough voice, put on but oddly fitting his face.

Looking over his shoulder, Castiel nods from his newly acquired barstool and tips a neon-green glass at him, umbrella between his lips. “Keeping watch,” he says and grins, waving Dean off.

Dean can’t even bring himself to fight, this time. The kid drags Dean out onto the floor with at least another twenty people, men and women paired amongst the other, moving with the rhythm that rattles the walls. Here, it’s all hands and skin, hot breaths and the sinuous grind that sends sparks up his spine. Normally, he’d be doing this with at least two drinks in him just to head off the nervousness, but the beat takes his mind off it, that and the hands cupping his waist, the mouth so close to his, parted lips right there.

At some point, the faces begin to blur, handoff after handoff leaving him giddy and winded in stranger’s company. Some ask him what he’s doing here, where he’s from, where he’s staying. “I have a boyfriend,” he tells a few of the men, because it’s the only word he has to describe what Castiel is to him besides chronic cuddler and amazing lay. Two don’t care, and one invites Castiel to a threesome. As attractive as he is—dark in the daylight and even more so in the scant light with deep blue eyes, Dean needs at least three drinks for someone to lead him out the door.

Never once does Castiel attempt to intervene, a fact Dean begins to conveniently forget over time. Deep down, he knows he should care, or at least be concerned, but the man touching him has his attention, blond haired and brown eyed, with teeth on the verge of sharp. “Wanna take you outside,” he says into Dean’s ear—his body complies despite Dean’s brain beginning to scream bloody murder, thoughts of ‘This is how you die, idiot’ and ‘Are you really that stupid?’ wafting through his head.

Dean has two rules—don’t accept drinks from strangers, and don’t follow anyone outside no matter how intoxicated he is. Tonight, he only does one against his will, nose following the scent of lavender and roses across the dance floor and down a dimly lit hall, red light overbearingly obvious. The man snakes his fingers between Dean’s and leads him along, past closed doors and a restroom, towards an exit into a back alley.

Humidity cloys his senses just enough to keep him sane, oppressingly thick and wet. The rain, however, doesn’t faze him, falling in thick drops atop his head, streaking down his face. The creature kisses him with no finesse under a spotlight, a hand in Dean’s hair, the other wrenching his jeans open with force. “You’re so pretty,” it says, and Dean’s stomach turns, lurching into his throat.

This isn’t how he dies—in a back alley with no control over his body, subjected to the whims of a creature he can’t even talk to, much less fight. “Let… go,” Dean slurs, legs caving, his world beginning to spiral. More kisses, more nips, and the terrifyingly familiar scent of his mother’s perfume lulling him into a false sense of security. His body screams for escape, but all he can do is stand there and take it against his will. “Let…”

“I’ll take you home with me,” the creature—incubus, the one they’ve just started hunting that just happened to walk literally into Dean’s lap—coos, all fangs and blood red eyes. It grabs hold of Dean’s cock and strokes, soft in its hand and hardening from pressure. “You’re prettier than the others. I’ll make it good for you,” it hisses with glee.

 _No_ , Dean thinks, but his lips won’t move. Completely at the will of his attacker, Dean closes his eyes, in time to see the proverbial white release of death wash over his vision, accompanied by screaming and scalding heat, neither of them his own.

He’s not dead—no, the incubus is screaming and Dean can suddenly move his limbs, and Castiel is there, hand on the damn thing’s scalp, burning its eyes out with just a thought. It slumps against the pavement with a thud, limbs twisted at odd angles, smelling of burnt hair and rotting flesh. And worst of all, it melts, the rain washing the remnants into a storm drain.

Oddly, that’s more fascinating than Castiel fucking killing the thing. “Dean,” Castiel says in haste; Dean barely registers Castiel touching his face, oblivious to his ruined zipper and the tremors now ripping through him, his teeth threatening to chatter. “Dean, are you hurt?”

 _Hurt_ —was he hurt? Castiel would have to be the judge of that—so far, all Dean can keep track of is his own heart rate, pounding against his ribs. “I think I’m gonna puke,” Dean manages, just before he hurls into the storm grate, Castiel’s hand on his throat the entire time.

-+-

For once, Dean appreciates not having to drive back to a motel after a hunt, and that they actually have a nice bedroom without a leaky roof and a bathtub that doesn’t smell like mold. In the grand scheme of things, the incubus isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to him—rabies shots after an infected coyote bite ties for the number one spot on his list, along with the wendigo that attempted to rip his leg off—but it’s the most surreal. Loss of mobility, loss of will, and the utter realization that if Castiel hadn’t been there, if Dean had been alone, he would’ve died and been cognizant of it, his torture playing out before his eyes, and he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing.

Castiel saved him. Right place, right time, horribly wrong circumstances.

“I’m sorry I ruined tonight,” Dean says under the shower spray later, Castiel at his back, shampooing his hands through Dean’s hair. Outside the permanently opened window, Dean can faintly hear the rain pinging off the aluminum out-shower’s roof, rolling into the sand. No lights, no sound save for the storm and the shower, and Castiel murmuring soft, foreign words into his nape. “…Didn’t even drink this time.”

“I wasn’t aware of its effects,” Castiel says. He runs a hand down Dean’s back, soothing the chill running through his veins. “Incubi rarely escape Hell, and rarely do they target victims in such a public manner.”

“Must’ve been hungry,” Dean muses, disheartened.

“They’ll attract their victims with familiar scents, sometimes even going so far as to take the form of a lover.” Which explains the perfume. Castiel pushes Dean’s head under the spray, rinsing the soap from his hair. “Do you remember what it looked like?”

“Not like you,” Dean snorts. “Just… a guy. Smelled like lavender, one of those frilly soaps they sell in malls.”

“Do you like lavender?” Castiel asks.

“Not anymore.” Dean tucks his knees in closer, gripping his ankles tighter. “Freaked me out. For a second, I thought he was actually gonna do it, and you wouldn’t find me. You looked friendly with the bartender for a while.”

Briefly, Castiel stops his ministrations to Dean’s scalp, only to draw his arms around Dean’s waist, pulling him close. “Would you believe me if I said I was listening for you?” Dean doesn’t answer, too ashamed to dignify that with a response. He should’ve been more careful, should’ve dragged Castiel to the floor with him. Should never have let Castiel out of his sight in the first place, especially considering the danger. “Stop that.”

Dean looks over his shoulder. “Stop what?”

“You’re thinking. You’re thinking you did something wrong.”

Since when can Castiel read his mind? “You think I did something right? It almost got me, Cas, because I tried to enjoy myself.”

“Carelessness doesn’t mean you made a mistake.” Castiel touches him now without lust, affection and concern tainting his embrace; he’s just as terrified as Dean is, Dean can tell, just from the way Castiel kisses his back, whispering praise and some disjointed, angular words into his ear. “If anything, I promised I would watch you, and I didn’t sense it. No sulfur, no erratic behavior… And then you were gone, and all I could smell was fear. And then I found you.”

“Speaking of that.” It takes maneuvering, but Dean manages to worm his way out of Castiel’s grasp, rotating on the bathtub floor to face Castiel in all his naked glory. Not even in Las Cruces did Dean get the chance to fully look at Castiel, at every aspect of him, the light hair on his chest, the full breadth of his broad shoulders, the remnants of a silvered scar ripped over his collarbone spanning to his navel. A mystery hidden in past wounds scattered across his chest and arms, from battles Dean can’t probably begin to understand.

Dean wants to know them, all of them, and the man who wears them. Wholly, completely. “…How did you kill it?” he starts, hands in his lap, knees perched on the edges of the tub.

“I can smite any creature at will,” Castiel offers. “Monsters, demons, humans, anything but another Angel. Anything that threatens myself or others harm, I can erase their existence.”

Dean struggles not to swallow his tongue and flee. “If I wasn’t scared out of my mind right now, I’d think that’s hot.”

“Don’t say that.” Castiel draws Dean forward, arms around his neck; Dean folds in willingly, resting his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder. “You’ve probably taken down worse foes, and you’ve overcome them. This one was no different.”

 _But it could’ve killed me_ , Dean thinks, solemn. “What if you didn’t find me?” Dean asks just as the water begins to run cold. “What if it was too late?”

“It’s never too late.” Tenderly, Castiel kisses his cheek, afterwards letting their foreheads rest together. “I’ve come to like you these last few days. You’ve let me smoke and do unmentionable things in your car.” Dean snorts and lowers his eyes. “I think that’s trust, considering how much you appreciate her.”

As odd as it is, Dean does trust him, this creature, this Angel, he literally dragged down from the cross who’s wanted nothing more to fuck and smoke his way across the country without a care in the world. Even after the near run ins with the cops, the heated nights between the sheets, long drives and even longer days, Dean wouldn’t choose anyone else to do this with, wouldn’t trust another person with his life as much as he does Castiel. And not just because he literally smoked a monster’s eyes out of its skull.

“Will you stay?” Dean asks, soft, a secret between them. “Once I get the car fixed, will you stay?”

Castiel smiles, kisses him in full. “Until you tell me to leave, I’m yours.”

“Even if Heaven starts calling?”

Another grin, and Castiel laughs. “Even if Heaven realizes I’m gone, I’ll stay. Besides.” He pulls back, palming Dean’s cheek. “I still haven’t seen the sunrise.”

Dean snorts. “Shit outta luck in this city.”

“We have time.” Another kiss, and this time, Dean returns the gesture, snaking his arms around Castiel’s back.

That, he’ll hold Castiel to.

-+-

The rain doesn’t stop the following day, a continuous onslaught of storms rolling across the gulf and onto land, slamming Panama City and driving water through the streets. Not as bad as Louisiana and Texas, though, based on the news reports on the television in the other room. Not as strong as other tropical storms, but enough to flood the inland areas in dramatic fashion.

Very seldom do they leave the bed, Dean only escaping to use the restroom or sneak out to the grocery store down the road to find something he can shove in the oven. Castiel’s warmth keeps him steady, that and the comfort of his wings forming a cocoon, trapping heat within the blankets. Too hot to stand sometimes, but everything Dean needs, everything he’s been deprived.

“What if we fucked?” Dean asks later in the evening, dressed in only a bath towel while Castiel lays bare on the bed, wings put away for now.

Castiel opens an eye to him, eyebrow quirked. “I thought we did that already.”

“No, I mean—” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. Why is this so hard? “Like… Have you ever…”

“Have I ever been fucked?” Castiel shoots back. Dean nods. “I can’t say I have. I wouldn’t be averse, though.”

Dean pulls off his towel and tosses it towards the bathroom, afterwards shutting the door behind him. “Right now?”

Sitting up, Castiel winks—actually winks, lips curling into a wicked grin. “If you’re up to it.”

 _Oh, I’m up_. “Then turn over.”

For all of Castiel’s gracelessness in the daylight, he moves with precision upon request, not even startling the slightest when Dean runs his fingers down to Castiel’s tailbone. In Las Cruces, Castiel took Dean with astonishingly maddening force, a whirlwind Dean could barely keep up with, hands and teeth everywhere all at once. At one point, he could’ve sworn Castiel _was_ everywhere, some manipulation of his power encompassing and touching him wherever he pleased. Here, though, Dean takes him apart slowly, soothing Castiel’s complaints with his free hand, expert fingers delving wetly inside and twisting, tormenting. Serves Castiel right, for everything he’s put Dean through the last week.

“You’re infuriating,” Castiel hisses, yet stretches his arms above his head, pressing a palm against the headboard. Fucking cat. “You’re making me wait.”

“I’ll make you wait as I damn well please,” Dean mocks and rips a condom wrapper with his teeth. Castiel just rolls his eyes and arches his back, practically wiggling his hips. God, Dean could spank him if he didn’t think he’d come on the spot. “You think you can handle me?”

“You’re more infuriating when you’re in charge.” Reaching back, Castiel smacks his thigh. “What did I do to deserve this?”

 _So many things_ , Dean considers, rolling the condom on. “Well, you tried to blow me in traffic,” he says and shoves inside, shivering until he bottoms out; Castiel moans and pushes against the headboard, panting wildly in the pillows. “And you did once we got back in the car in the rain, because I had to take my pants off.”

“I’m wrong, you’re not infuriating,” Castiel grumbles; he looks over his shoulder with narrowed eyes, amusing given the situation. “You’re just an ass.”

“Pot, kettle,” Dean laughs.

The first thrust shuts Castiel up permanently, aside from grunting and clawing at whatever he can reach—Dean’s leg, the sheets, the headboard, even his own hair. Dean could get drunk off this, watching Castiel fall apart underneath him, panting and writhing and downright begging whenever he pleases. And Dean always obliges and pushes in harder, at one point leaning over to kiss Castiel’s neck, twining their fingers together above Castiel’s head.

It only hits him that he’s fucking an Angel—warrior of God, smiter of the wicked—once he pulls out, instructing Castiel to ride him, a position Castiel takes with much more enthusiasm than Dean expected. Dean’s read the Bible multiple times, including the Apocrypha and Enoch and whatever else he could find, solely for research, and the last people to sleep with Angels drowned, or were otherwise indisposed. “God, I’m going to Hell,” Dean moans, head thrown back. He holds onto Castiel’s hips regardless, jerking Castiel’s thick cock in quick bursts.

“I assure you,” Castiel grunts, nipping Dean’s ear, “the last thing you’ll go to Hell for is me.”

Dean comes before he can stop himself, Castiel’s voice spurring his release, along with the vice grip around his cock and the tongue tracing the shell of his ear. “You feel amazing,” Castiel stutters, and faintly through the blood rushing in his ears, Dean can hear him jerking himself, chasing Dean’s quickly softening cock until he comes in thick streaks across Dean’s chest, congealing with the sweat that’s never quite dried ever since they left New Mexico.

“I wanna go to California,” Dean says in the aftermath, long after he’s thrown away the condom and toweled the both of them dry, Castiel still mouthing wetly along his collar, drawing blood to the surface in a collection of red marks. “Cas, listen…”

“I am listening,” Castiel muses, watching him with one eye. “You want to go to California.”

“Thought we could drop by home first.” Castiel stops and leans up, all playfulness replaced with stern eyes and an even sterner scowl. Dean swallows under the attention, heart beginning to race. “C’mon, you can meet the whole family. My brother’s gonna be in town, and mom’ll wanna talk shop. Dad’s into history, you can probably talk him to sleep.”

“You really think they’d like me?” Castiel asks with all the wonder of a child, head cocked at an angle. “It’s barely been a week. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“Hell no,” Dean chuckles. “But if you’re there, I think I can get through it. …Never been good at going it alone, so if I don’t have to, why keep going?”

With a thud, Castiel drops back onto the bed, one arm draped over Dean’s chest, aimlessly patting his shoulder. “Why me, though?” he asks; Dean’s gut warms. “Out of everyone else, why me?”

To that, Dean doesn’t know the answer. But there’s trust there, aside from the sex and cigarettes and cassette tapes, trust and affection and the slightest bit of adoration. Maybe love, if he had to put a name to it. Too soon, but they have all the time in the world. “I think I’m starting to like you,” Dean echoes, earning Castiel’s grin, all teeth and crow’s feet. “You wanna come?”

“I’ll go anywhere with you.” Castiel seals it with a kiss, and Dean can’t help but hold it to heart and hold on tight.

-+-

The culprit of all of Dean Winchester’s air conditioning woes—a chewed through AC line. Three hundred bucks, after Jason successfully pays him for his troubles, and she’ll be good as new in a few hours. Given the equipment, Dean could’ve fixed it himself and done something with his degree, but given the last few days, he can wait.

They, certainly, can wait, especially with the sun beginning to peek through the cloud layer, the storm coming to pass. “Shame we missed the sunrise,” Castiel says, slipping his sandals off in the sand and holding them in his hands. Currently, he’s dressed in some of the only clothes Dean has bought him in the last week, consisting of a gaudy tie-dye T-shirt and knee-length floral pants, like Castiel is trying to fit in with the spring breakers. Dean has never seen someone more touristy in his life.

Castiel seems to like them enough, though, and that’s a good enough excuse to get Castiel out of Dean’s clothes and into something literally more comfortable and isn’t ripping off his body. Luckily, Dean has suffered only two casualties, easily replaceable plain black shirts with no value.

The shoes, though, with neon green soles and an equally tacky strap, Dean burns in his nightmares. _They’re Castiel’s_ , he thinks as he pulls off his tennis shoes, leaving them beside the boardwalk. _You can’t torch them just because they’re ugly_.

“It’ll be better out west,” Dean says while they walk. Less than casually, he takes Castiel’s open hand in his, joining their fingers in a fist, and Castiel swings them back and forth, lightly skipping at Dean’s side. What kind of Angel is he, anyway? Are the others just as hedonistic? Or is Castiel the outlier, the black sheep of the Angelic race? Or does he just not care about what trouble he gets into as long as he enjoys himself? Sometimes, Dean wishes he could be that selfish.

Castiel strides through the sand and eventually relinquishes their grip, treading into the surf, the waves lapping around his toes, calm in the early morning air. “I like it here, though,” Castiel says, turning his head to Dean, hands in his pockets, sandals abandoned at the water’s edge. The sun forms a halo around his head, and for a split second, Dean wonders if it’s real. “With you, I mean.”

Dean flushes, ducking his head away. “You don’t mean that.”

“But I do.” Extending a hand, Castiel beckons for him, sliding their palms against the other as Dean steps foot into the water. “Anyone else would’ve left me, but you trusted me.”

“I wanted to kill you,” Dean mumbles.

Castiel just grins. “But you didn’t, and that counts. For what it’s worth, this is the most fun I’ve had in… a long time.”

“Not just because of the sex?”

“Not just the sex,” Castiel snorts. Gentle fingers caress Dean’s nape, sliding over to his collar, trailing to his cheek and stilling; Dean lets his eyes slip shut, this time not startled when Castiel kisses him, just as the first wave of the day crashes around their ankles, drowning out the world. “Would you believe me if I said I loved you?”

Dean blinks, bewildered, but his heart doesn’t race—coming from Castiel, it may as well be the truth, a confession only so seldom admitted to Dean, and only a handful of times slipping from his lips. He should be ashamed of how it warms him at his core, should hate how those three words soothe him, quell the ache in his chest he didn’t know he had. Now, though, he’s full, Castiel’s affection burning through him, alight in his heart, burning bright behind his eyes. “Think I’m starting to too,” Dean whispers, the truth on his tongue, flowing like water.

A smile, one of many more to come, as long as Castiel is with him. “Take me home,” Castiel says, the sun at his back, clouds beginning to thin.

Dean doesn’t reply—just seals it with a kiss, palms to Castiel’s cheeks, Castiel’s arms around his waist. It’s a promise he intends to keep close to his heart, always within reach, like the rising sun.

**Author's Note:**

> So I got this idea in my head literally a week ago, and decided that with a few more scenes in my DCBB left, I would just write a 5k piece so I didn't have to look at this longass nightmare anymore. As you can see, it ended up more than double that, and I'm honestly wondering where this came from. I love it regardless, and I had a lot of fun writing it, so I hope y'all enjoy it!
> 
> Also thanks to Agnes for betaing on such short notice! All typos are on me, I've only read through it once and I really wanted to post something that ISN'T a challenge piece for once. I feel like I've been slacking off with posting things over the last two years, so I hope this at least somewhat makes up for it.
> 
> Title is from the song by Roger Miller. I've been listening to the Randy Travis version a lot lately. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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